_CONTENT_? There's many an English heart will hear with fierce amaze
That England lags so far behind in these electric days--
England, whose seamen are her shield, who vaunts in speech and song,
The love she bears her mariners! Wake, CAMPBELL, swift and strong
Of swell and sweep as the salt waves you sang as none could sing!
Rouse DIBDIN, of the homelier flight, but steady waft of wing!
Poetic shades, _this_ question, sure, should pierce the ear of death,
And make ye vocal once again with quick, indignant breath.
_Content_? Whilst round our rocky coasts the souls who guard them sink,
Death clutching from the clamorous brine, hope beaconing from the brink,
With lifted hands toward the lights that beam but to betray,
Because dull Britons fail to think, or hesitate to pay?
No! With that question a fierce thrill through countless listeners went,
And, hoarse with indignation, rings the answer, "_Not_ Content!"

When the Armada neared our coast in days now dubbed as "dark,"
Pre-scientific Englishmen, whom no Electric Spark
Had witched with its white radiance, yet sped from height to height
Of Albion's long wild sea-coast line the ruddy warning Light.
"Cape beyond Cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire"[1]
_Reveillé_ shot from sea to sea, from wave-washed shire to shire,
Inland, from hill to hill, it flashed wherever English hand
Helpful at need in English cause could grip an English brand.
To-day? Well, round our jutting cliffs, across our hollowing bays
Thicker the light-ship beacons flash, the lighthouse lanterns blaze.
From sweep to sweep, from steep to steep, our shores are starred with light,
Burning across the briny floods through the black mirk of night,
Forth-gleaming like the eyes of Hope, or like the fires of Home,
Upon the eager eyes of men far-straining o'er the foam.